Eyes Like Sky
by Badgergater
Summary: Can the residents of the Sherman Ranch find a way to cope with a terrible loss?
1. Chapter 1

Eyes Like Sky

By Badgergater

Season: Set after Season 4

Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Can the residents of the Sherman Ranch find a way to cope with a grievous loss?

Author's Notes: Thanks to Hired Hand, my excellent beta who always keeps me on track.

Laramie xx Laramie xx Laramie xx Laramie

 _This fic was inspired by one of the saddest songs I know:_

" _I know your life on earth was troubled,_

 _Only you could know the pain._

 _Weren't afraid to face the devil,_

 _Were no stranger to the rain."_

 _Oh how we cried the day you left us,_

 _Gathered 'round your grave to grieve…._

 _(Go Rest High on That Mountain by Vince Gill)_

Laramie xx Laramie xx Laramie xx Laramie

They laid Jess Harper to rest in the tiny cemetery on the hillside above the ranch house, next to Slim Sherman's parents, on a perfect summer day of bright sunshine, cloudless blue skies, and heavy hearts.

How could a day so beautiful be filled with so much sadness?

Ranch owner Slim Sherman stood ramrod straight, face solemn, one arm protectively encircling the shoulders of the ranch's grief-stricken housekeeper, Daisy Cooper. Devastated, the elderly woman stood trembling beside the tall young man, fighting a losing battle to retain her composure. Both of them were dressed entirely in black, and nine-year old Mike Williams too was clad in that somber color, the boy huddled between the two grieving adults, looking hurt and confused.

While they waited for the preacher to begin his duties, Slim gazed out over the crowd that had gathered. The ranch yard was filled to overflowing with buggies, wagons and saddle horses. Half of Laramie must have been there, maybe more, or so it seemed. Jess would be impressed, Slim thought with a sad half-smile. If only he was here to see how many people truly cared about him, how many lives he'd touched. Sure, there were a few gawkers, maybe even a couple of folks who were there just to be sure that Jess really was gone, and glad of it. But the rest were his friends, people he'd helped and protected in the years since he'd arrived in Laramie.

There was Sheriff Mort Cory of course, Jess' most unlikely friend, the lawman who had come to trust and respect the one-time drifter. Mose was there and all of the Overland drivers who weren't working that day, more than half of the line's relay station owners and every one of the Overland partners plus the line superintendent who'd come over that morning from the main office in Cheyenne.

His gaze lifting to survey the crowd, Slim spotted Jess' friends Kett and Lottie Darby; Ezra Watkins, who owned the general store and with him, his nephew Bill, the young man with whom Jess had tangled before they became friends. Marshal Branch McGary and his deputies Reb and Patches had arrived a few hours earlier, the tumbleweed wagon parked for this one day behind the barn, next to two wagons that had arrived full of homesteaders from down the valley. Wheelchair bound Roy Halloran who ran the Laramie stage office and his wife Martha waited next to the bartender from Windy's. A bunch of Jess' poker buddies from ranches scattered all the way from Cheyenne to Medicine Bow and on down toward Denver were among the quiet crowd. Army Major Stanton and Sergeant Billy Jacobs had traveled the farthest, riding all the way from Fort Laramie.

Ma Tolliver, who called Jess a real man of the west and that was mighty high praise indeed considering the folks she'd known in her lifetime, was there with her granddaughter Sue and Sue's new husband, a young lawman named Bud. Charlie Frost, who'd quit drinking after whatever it was that had happened on that posse Jess had ended up leading a few months back, stood next to the young rancher Sam Moore and his wife, Alma, who held their toddler who had been born at the Sherman Ranch during that same manhunt. Mr. Elbee who since the news had arrived had kept shaking his head and talking about how last year Jess had faced down those no good troublemaking men chasing Ben McKittrick, had offered the use of his gleaming black hearse, free of charge, and had even driven it himself. The saloon girls from Windy's were all there, too, dressed in their gaudy finery and shedding what looked like real tears.

There were even some folks Slim didn't know, but each of them had stopped him and said a few words about something Jess had once done for them.

Who would have thought so many folks would come to call a one-time gunslick drifter friend? A man who, not that long ago, had arrived in Laramie alone and friendless and who left now entwined into so many lives.

His pride in his friend's accomplishments made Slim's heart even heavier, if that was possible.

The rancher was amazed at the turnout, but not surprised, not really. Jess had always been one to jump in and help folks, no matter who they were, no matter what the risk to himself. It was something Slim had always admired about his friend, admired and at the same time worried about, because so often that willingness to take on someone else's troubles had landed Jess in the thick of that very same trouble.

Probably had this time, this last time, too, though fact was they'd never know for sure just what had happened.

There was no one left alive to tell.

Slim listened with only half an ear as the preacher began reading from the good book, the familiar soothing words of the Twenty-third Psalm rising above the wind and carrying across the hushed crowd. Jess had never been a church-going man, he'd generally avoided it in fact, but Slim had asked the reverend to speak for Daisy's sake, hoping his words would give her some comfort. He was deeply concerned for her — she and Jess had forged such a strong bond over the past two years. Though they were such opposites, Daisy, ever the consummate and genteel lady, and Jess, the rough, hard living ex-drifter, shared something unique between them.

And though he knew she was doing her best to be strong for Mike's sake as well as her own, Slim was well aware of what a terrible blow this loss was to the housekeeper. He'd heard her last night, late in the night, the soft sounds of weeping coming from her room tearing at his own already battered heart. She was a strong woman but no longer young, and she seemed to have aged ten years in these last few days.

Today, despite all the care she always took in her appearance, her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, her face grey and, to Slim's experienced eye, she looked more than a bit shaky on her feet. He was genuinely worried about her.

In the midst of Slim's reverie, the preacher's words droned to a halt and the young rancher looked up to see the parson nodding at him. It was his turn to speak.

He'd rehearsed the words over and over, but saying them was as difficult a thing to do as he'd ever done in his whole life. Slim lifted his shoulders and stood up straight, clearing his throat and starting shakily in a voice raw with loss.

"Jess Harper w-was a good man." Slim's voice wavered and broke, but he had things to say so he forced himself to go on. "He was a good man. Sure, sometimes he slipped up, but he tried," his voice trembling and he had to stop but he took a deep breath and once again made himself continue. His speech gained strength as he spoke because he owed Jess this, and so much more. "He always tried his best to do right, to help people, not because he thought he'd gain something by it, but because it was the right thing to do.

"Jess made a lot of friends, friends he was always loyal to, no matter how high the cost of that loyalty." He heard Daisy sob as she clung to him and had to stop again, patting her back as he fought to hold himself together.

"Four years ago Jess rode into Laramie, and that day he made this town a better place to live, for all of us. He was my best friend, the best partner a rancher could ever have, as close to me as any brother could ever be, and I owe him my life a dozen times over." He raised his eyes to look out over the crowd. "A lot of you owe him, too." A comforting hand fell on his shoulder and Slim looked over to see Mort Cory, the sheriff's face looking as haggard as Slim knew his own must.

Voice shaking, he went on, "Jess wouldn't want us to mourn him. He loved life and he'd want us to remember the good times. That's not something that's easy to do just now, but I will. I'll remember the horseplay and the laughter, the fishing and the storytelling and how he took pride in this ranch, and this town, and in all of you callin' him friend."

His eyes were burning and his throat was trying to close up on him but Slim fought through it. "I'm- I'm gonna remember how he changed his life for the better, and all the good that he did for folks." His voice choked with emotion. "I'm gonna miss him." He hugged Daisy and Mike. "We're gonna miss him but we won't ever forget him and what he's done for us and for this town." He looked out at the crowd, at the many familiar faces. "Someday, this is gonna be a civilized country, and that will be because of the sacrifices of good men, men like Jess Harper." That was all he could say.

"Thank you, thank you all for coming," he managed to mumble and then he turned away to embrace Daisy who buried her face against his chest and sobbed, all but collapsing against him. He wrapped one arm around her and the other around a crying Mike and somehow managed to hold back his own tears, though he didn't know how.

The three of them stood together, clinging to each other, silent except for the muffled sounds of weeping as the mourners slowly dispersed with muttered words of condolence. Slim could only nod at each of them, his voice having deserted him completely. In his stead, it was Mort who shook hands with them and quietly thanked them for coming, until finally it was just the sheriff and the three residents of the Sherman Ranch, alone with their grief.

Long moments passed in heavy silence as the last hoof beats faded away.

"I still can't believe he's gone," Mort said, twisting the brim of the hat he held in his hands. "Jess always seemed indestructible." He looked over at the others, forcing a smile. "He sure was a difficult son of a buck sometimes."

That brought a sad smile to Slim's haggard expression. "Sometimes?"

"Yeah," Mort put his hat on and slapped the tall man's back. "This town won't be the same without him and I mean that in a good way."

The rancher nodded.

"Are you gonna be all right?" the Mort asked kindly, worried about his friends.

Slim nodded again, holding tight to Daisy and Mike. "We will be," he said, and didn't utter aloud the rest of the thought, that though they'd go on, they would never be the same.

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With the last of the mourners departed, the undertaker's crew went to work with their shovels.

Daisy tried to close her ears to the dull thud of dirt hitting the pine box, but she couldn't, not even covering her ears and burying her head against Slim's chest could shut out the noise and the finality it represented.

It was, she thought, the most dreadful sound in the world, an ending, a final tolling for a life lost far too young.

Daisy Cooper was no stranger to grief and death. She'd been bereft when she buried her husband just two years before, but his had been a long life, a life well lived, and she could accept death taking a man of his years. And her son, he'd been younger than Jess when the war claimed him, but she'd gotten no body to bury, no funeral rituals to comfort her, no grave to mourn at, only a letter from his commanding officer, telling her he'd died bravely, as if that was some consolation.

And now Jess had joined them in death, another loved one laid in the ground, and she had learned all too well that having a body and a funeral and a marker, no matter how solid, didn't matter either. The grief was just as intense, like a fist clenched tight around her heart.

Finally, the workers finished, departing wordlessly, and then Mort rode away as well, and there was nothing for the three of them to do but walk slowly back to the house.

None of them uttered a word as they went inside. Daisy worked mechanically setting out food for their supper, needing something to do so she wouldn't have to think. Despite her efforts, none of them ate a thing, all of their attention focused on their plates, trying not to see the empty place at the table. The silence was stifling, and deafening.

After they gave up on eating, Mike went disconsolately off to his room while Slim stood beside the hearth, leaning against it as he stared morosely into the fire. Daisy tucked Mike into bed, the boy refusing her offer of a bedtime story, so she doused the light and re-joined the rancher in the main room. Crossing the room she paused briefly to lovingly caress the arm of the rocking chair that Jess had always favored, remembering how he'd enjoyed so many nights sitting in it, in front of the fire.

She took a seat in the room's other chair, picking up her basket of mending and setting it on her lap but leaving the needle and thread untouched. "You should get some sleep," she suggested softly to the tall rancher.

"Can't." Slim pointed at a blank sheet of paper that lay on his desk. "I still haven't written the letters." He hadn't been able to find the words to explain Jess' death to Andy, in St. Louis at school, or, worse, Francie McKittrick, Jess' sister, far away in California. He'd sent them both telegrams with the bare bones details, but each was too far away to return in time for the funeral, especially Francie who was carrying a child who would now never have the chance to get to know his or her uncle.

Daisy's answer was gentle, knowing how deeply Slim was hurting, as if he'd lost a part of himself. "Leave it for now, Slim. Maybe tomorrow the words will come."

He shook his head in disagreement. "I told myself that yesterday, and the day before." He looked over at her with anguish darkening his blue eyes. "How do I tell them the unthinkable? How do I explain what I can't comprehend myself?" He waved a hand at the front door. "I keep expecting him to come chargin' through that door and tell us this is all some monstrous mistake. I know it isn't, I know we buried him up there on the hillside today, but I can't shake the feeling."

"It is hard to let go. Mike told me he dreamed about Jess last night," she stumbled over the name, as if saying it pained her, and Slim was sure it did. Daisy's eyes were red-rimmed, her voice hoarse and she looked more exhausted than he'd ever seen her, even when she'd gone sleepless for days tending one or the other of them when they were sick or hurt.

His eyes strayed to look over at the door to Mike's room. "Poor kid, he's lost so much already and now this." The rancher's gaze swung back to meet that of the housekeeper, his hand reaching out to take hold of hers to give her comfort, a comfort he needed as well. "And so have you."

She clutched his hand, her eyes brimming. "All of us have."

"We'll get through this somehow, Daisy. I don't know how but we will, because Jess would want us to," he promised her with more determination than he felt, because there was nothing they could do but go on.

No matter how much it hurt.

Laramie xx Laramie xx Laramie xx Laramie

Hurt was his world, pulsing, throbbing pain that blocked out all sense of the here and the now, of where he was or who he was or what had happened to him.

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Coming soon…. Chapter Two


	2. Chapter 2

Eyes Like Sky- Chapter Two

Unable to sleep, the house oppressively full of memories, Slim finally fled outside, hiking up the hillside to the fresh grave that stood like a raw wound against the earth. He hadn't been sure that this was the right place to bury Jess; they'd never talked about it, and a part of him thought that Jess might want to be out in the big open somewhere, unfettered and free. But in the end, Slim had decided that the man belonged here, at the heart of the ranch and among Slim's own blood kin, because Jess was family in every way that mattered.

"Maybe you'd have been happier out there in the wilds somewhere, pard," Slim whispered to the night air. "But I put my folks here so they'd always have a view of the place, of their place. And your place, too, because I know you came to think of it as home." The only sound was a coyote's shrill yips from far off across the hills, but there was no return call and after a few moments the unanswered howls ceased. Slim stood in the moonlight and listened to the sighing of the wind, but there were no more answers on the hillside than there'd been in the house. After a few silent minutes, Slim trudged slowly back down to the house and slipped inside.

He sat beside the fire far into the night, once again unable to sleep, staring into the mesmerizing flames. He recalled the last time he'd spoken to Jess. Could it have been only four days ago when, all unknowing, he'd said goodbye to his best friend for the last time? They'd parted with his teasing words to Jess about staying out of trouble as he set off on the northbound stage to pick up horses.

His last images of his pard were of a smiling Jess, giving Daisy a hug and a peck on the cheek, teasing Mike, and yet, anxious to be on his way.

Jess had settled in over the years. He knew this place was his home, Slim was sure of that, but he also knew that his friend still needed to get away from the ranch now and then, to feel free and unfettered. A part of Jess would always be that drifter who'd wandered the big open for so many years, and it showed through at any opportunity to break away from the ranch routine for even just a few days. Slim had understood that need in Jess, so while he'd griped about it, he'd never really been angry when his pard had gone away, no matter the reason. But bit by bit over the past four years, Jess had settled more and more, straying less often, though he'd never be totally content staying anywhere, Slim was certain.

"Hey, Slim, don't work too hard while I'm gone," Jess had called out cheerfully, smiling and waving jauntily from the window of the departing coach.

That was the last time they'd seen him.

Jess and the stage had never arrived at their destination ….

\- Laramie xx Laramie xx Laramie xx Laramie

Three days later, Slim rode into Laramie to pick up supplies. He'd just dropped off the list with Ezra at the store, and with an hour free while the order was being filled, was heading toward the saloon for a beer when Roy Halloran called out to him from down at the stage depot.

Slim changed directions, leading Alamo down the street and tying up in front of the Overland office where Roy sat in his wheelchair just outside the depot's front door. Roy's wife Martha stood beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder, and the look on her face sent an immediate chill down Slim's spine. It was obvious something was terribly wrong. "Martha," he tipped his hat at the woman and turned his attention to the man. "Roy? What's happened?"

The stage agent's face was grim. "Slim, I just got a telegraph. The Overland coach heading to Casper was attacked by a Sioux raiding party north of Rock River. They found the stage this morning, near the pass, wrecked and burned." He looked down and then slowly lifted his gaze to meet the tall rancher's eyes and added, "Slim, it's…. I don't know how to say this, but I'm afraid there were no survivors."

It took Slim a moment to comprehend what he'd just heard, and then all the color drained from his face. "You're sure? All of them, Roy? You know Jess was..."

The station agent nodded. "I know. The message said they found four bodies among the wreckage, all badly burned. That would be the three passengers and Karl Schneider, the driver."

Slim was speechless.

"I'm sorry, Slim. I know Jess was your friend," Roy patted his wife's arm, "and he was a good friend to us, too."

The rancher nodded, unable to speak.

"They're bringing the bodies, or what's left of them, back today. First thing this morning Sheriff Cory rode out to meet them," Roy informed him.

Forgetting all about the supplies he'd come to town to buy, failing even to say goodbye to Roy and Martha, in shocked silence Slim turned away, mounted up on Alamo, and rode slowly out of Laramie, but not towards home.

Three hours north of town he met up with Mort and the stage line superintendent riding ahead of a rumbling wagon. Slim dismounted and started toward the vehicle, but Mort intercepted him before he could get close enough to look at what was in the wagon's bed.

"You don't want to see, Slim. Really," the sheriff told him kindly, steering him away from the blanket wrapped forms.

Slim frowned then, full of dread, his mouth dry as dust as he asked the question he didn't want an answer to, "You're sure it's Jess?"

The lawman nodded glumly. "As sure as we can be, considerin' the condition of the bodies," Mort answered softly, his own grief showing. "The fire was pretty intense." The sheriff saw his old friend flinch as if he'd been struck a physical blow and Mort put a steadying hand on Slim's shoulder while with the other he dug into his vest pocket. "We did find this."

Mort pulled from his pocket a scrap of scorched cloth, its deep blue color showing through in several spots and in other places stained dark with what the rancher knew was blood. Slim stared at it, recognizing it as exactly the color of the deep blue, bib front shirt Jess had been wearing when he'd left the ranch. It was the one Daisy had given him for Christmas two years ago, and he could vividly remember her smiling when she'd explained how it brought out the blue in his eyes, while Jess blushed red and refused to look at her.

He took the cloth from Mort, crushing it in his fist as the last glimmer of hope evaporated from his heart.

"The stage went off the road at that big ravine on the way up Lodgepole Pass, rolled and smashed to kindling wood. The driver's body had an arrow in his ribs. It's likely the passengers all died in the crash," the sheriff added kindly, "and those Indians burned the coach an' the bodies in it as an afterthought." Mort shook his head. "We met up with an Army patrol from Fort Laramie when we got there. They'd been chasin' those renegades for nearly two weeks, ever since some damn fool buffalo hunters broke the treaty and got caught hunting on land the Sioux rightly consider their own. A bunch of riled up young braves declared some sort of vendetta on any white man who crossed their paths." The sheriff sighed. "Burnt down a couple of ranches up north, attacked some freighters near Casper, killed a couple of buffalo hunters. This stage runnin' into them was just bad luck and bad timing."

Slim, shaken, barely heard Mort's words. He could focus on nothing but the bit of bright blue in his trembling hand. "It can't be."

"I'm sorry, Slim," was all the sheriff could say, knowing it wasn't enough, knowing that it was no comfort or consolation but only empty words that couldn't replace the man who had been friend to them both.

The tall man sagged, his last hope gone as he clutched the scrap of cloth. "Then he's really gone."

Mort nodded, his face sad and grim. "I'm sorry, Slim. Jess was my friend, too."

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It fell to Slim to tell the others. He rode home with a heart that weighed a thousand pounds or more. Pulling up in front of the barn, he took his time unsaddling and feeding Alamo, dreading the task that lay ahead and not knowing what to say or how to say it, not when he felt cut to the bone himself. He dawdled over the work, stretching each task out as long as he could, but in the end, the chores were finished and he still couldn't force himself to go to the house. Instead, he stopped beside the corral and slipped between the rails, ambling over to stroke Traveler's long nose as if touching the horse could somehow bring him closer to his lost friend.

His thoughts wandered back to the first time he'd met Jess, all prickly and brash and overflowing with bravado, resting beside the creek with the stout bay horse tied to the very tree where the "No Trespassing" sign was posted. Jess had exuded such confidence, it had taken Slim a while to discover the brooding man, filled with uncertainties, hidden beneath the brash facade.

"Slim! Slim! Supper's on!" Daisy called cheerfully from the house.

Slim blinked, patting the bay horse's velvety soft face one last time before straightening his shoulders and heading to the house for the worst conversation of his life.

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Daisy noted Slim's heavy tread as the tall rancher came in the front door, the uncharacteristic slump to his shoulders and the way he took so long to hang up his hat, his back turned to the room. A shiver of dread crawled up her spine. "Slim?"

He turned slowly to face her and the first glimpse of his devastated face made her knees go weak. She clutched at the edge of the table, her stomach doing flip-flops, and sank down in a chair as the tall man hurried over to her.

"Aunt Daisy?" Mike, already seated at the table, turned from one to the other of the adults, his face puzzled. "Slim? What's wrong?"

She said nothing, looking up at the blonde rancher, her heart thundering as she brought a hand up to her face. Her voice trembled. "Slim?"

His heart broke for her, for the boy, for all of them. "Daisy, Mike," his voice deserted him for a moment as he dropped to one knee beside the housekeeper, taking hold of her hand.

Mike jumped from his chair and came around to stand beside her, puzzlement replaced by fear at the look on the tall man's normally cheerful face. "What's wrong?"

"It's Jess," he finally managed to choke out the words. "Two days… two days ago, the coach was attacked by Indians. There was a fight and Jess... Jess…."

"So he's hurt and we need to go to him," Daisy interrupted.

"No, Daisy. There's nothing we can do." He watched the realization hit her, watched her eyes go wide and her face crumble and for a moment he feared she would faint dead away.

"Oh," she tried to breathe and it turned into a sob as she fought to collect herself. "Oh. No." She looked from Slim to Mike and back to Slim. "No. Slim? Oh no. Tell me it's not true! It can't…. "

His voice was soft and low and full of grief. "I'm sorry, Daisy. Jess didn't make it. None of them did."

There was a long moment of silence as neither one of them so much as breathed.

"Didn't make what?" Mike demanded innocently.

Slim slid into a chair and pulled the boy onto his knee, choosing his words carefully. "That's just a tactful way of saying that," he had to force himself to take a deep breath, "that everyone on the stage was killed, Mike, including Jess."

"Killed?" The boy jumped up, his small hands balled into fists, his face defiant. "Not Jess! Indians couldn't kill Jess! He'd fight and fight and fight until he chased them away."

Slim reached for the youngster. "They did kill him, Mike. Jess is dead," his throat closed as he uttered the words.

Mike leaped back, beyond Slim's grasp, his voice fierce, his expression angry as he shouted, "You're wrong! Jess ain't dead! He can't be dead! He'll come back, you just watch! He'll come back and you'll be sorry, he'll come back and be mad at you for thinkin' such a terrible thing!" and then the boy's anger dissolved into tears and he threw himself into the tall rancher's arms.

Slim took hold of the boy, Mike's arms wrapping around his neck as he cried against the blonde man's shoulder. Slim could only look across at Daisy and watch as a single tear slid silently down her cheek, and then another and another. Daisy did nothing to wipe them away as she sat there, looking at him, devastated.

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He dreamed, or so it seemed, nightmare flashes of thundering hoofbeats, loud cracking and crashing noises, tumbling amid choking dust and bitter smoke. There were sensations of flying through the air and rolling over and over, of thudding painfully against trees and rocks, and then of stumbling aimlessly through endless darkness, enveloped in pain. He could remember being cold and wet, hot and sweating, exhausted, in pain and confused.

Finally, dimly, as if from far away, he heard words, or what sounded like words, but he didn't understand them. Still, from their tone, he took them to be soothing.

It wasn't until a long time later that he realized it wasn't dream but memory, jumbled bits and pieces that his fuzzy brain couldn't yet assemble into coherence.

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Chapter Three to be posted soon

4


	3. Chapter 3

Eyes Like Sky: Chapter Three

Jess Harper's first lucid realization was that he didn't know where he was. He opened gritty eyes to look out wonderingly at a completely unfamiliar place: a rough cabin with walls of untrimmed logs, a stone fireplace with flames dancing on the hearth, and near it a pile of blankets on the floor. He was lying on a low, hard bed covered with warm furs, and when he tried to lift his head to see more, it was far too heavy to raise, or maybe he was just that weak. Moaning, he licked his dry lips, desperately thirsty, and that's when she appeared.

She was an Indian and old, very old, her waist length braids gray all the way to their tips. Her face was weatherbeaten, creased and deeply lined with great age though her dark eyes were still lively. There was something else in them as well, something he couldn't identify –- part fear, part wonder, part sympathy, part wariness and distrust.

She said something, and at first, Jess thought there was something wrong with him, that his ears weren't working properly or his brain had been scrambled by whatever it was that had happened to him. All he could do was look at her dumbly, bewildered, because the sounds she made had no meaning for him. Then she spoke again and he realized the problem wasn't in his head - her words weren't English but rather an Indian language, and a dialect he didn't understand. Not that he spoke all that much Indian, Slim was better at langu….

Slim!

It all came back to him then, rushing in to overwhelm him like an avalanche crashing down off a mountainside.

Slim Sherman.

The ranch.

Daisy and Mike.

Laramie.

The knowledge that he was Jess Harper, formerly of Texas.

Jess Harper, who worked for Slim, partner in the Sherman Ranch, and the relay station for the Overland Stage Compan….

The stage!

Suddenly all the rest was there, all the memories flooding through him, explaining why his head hurt and his arm hurt and the rest of his body felt battered from head to toe….

He'd been on his way north to Montana to pick up horses. There were only two other passengers on the stage that day. One was a ruddy-faced, middle-aged cattle rancher from up near Bozeman, Bill Arnold, on his way home from a cattle sale. As the coach rocked its way north, he and Jess had talked a bit about ranching, about the price of cattle and horses, about range conditions and the possibility of making a profit this year. The other traveler was a soft-handed, pinch-faced, silent man in a rumpled dusty suit and a bowler hat, a banker, Jess figured, or maybe a lawyer or even a shopkeeper, though most shopkeepers were more talky than this stranger. The man looked at the cowboy's rough clothes with apparent distaste and tersely introduced himself as Mr. Barnes before turning pointedly away when Jess tried to make conversation, staring out the window or dozing, ignoring the other men's talk of cattle and grass.

They pulled in right on time at Rock River station, the switching point for the route north, pleased to see another stage and team already hitched and waiting beside the barn. Jess stepped down out of the coach, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs during the short stopover while the drivers swapped places. Mose would take the reins of the waiting coach, one that had just arrived from Casper and points north, and drive the southbound freight, mail, and passengers to Laramie.

Meanwhile the teams were being changed on the stage Jess had just exited, the tired horses led away for feed and rest. A fresh team was hooked into the traces within just a few minutes, and a new driver quickly climbed up onto the box for the remainder of the trip north. Jess barely had the time to get a cup of coffee before the station agent checked his watch, then called out, "All passengers goin' north to Casper, better find yerself a seat now. We're runnin' late."

Tired of the dusty ride inside, Jess decided to climb up and take a seat beside the driver, a gruff German immigrant with a hearty voice and a thick accent, who introduced himself as Karl.

"Didn't know I'd have me a shotgun a'ridin' along on dis trip, Jess," Karl smiled in welcome. "Wit you ridin' up here, ya, I feel mighty safe now."

"Not shotgun today, Karl, just another passenger," Jess grinned, "but I do prefer the scenery up here."

"Ja, me, too," agreed Karl. "Too stuffy in der. Und dusty."

"That's for sure," agreed Jess as he waved farewell to Mose, the old reinsman having already gathered up the lines of the team that would take the stage back south to Laramie.

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They made good time heading north from Rock Creek, Karl a sure hand with the lines as the horses galloped along, the coach rocking to the rhythm of sixteen racing hooves, bouncing over ruts and rough patches in the road.

They were an hour out of the Elver Ranch station on their second change of horses when Jess saw the first sign of trouble. He caught only a quick glimpse of a rider on the ridgetop that paralleled the road, so brief he wasn't sure he'd really seen anything. Around the next curve, however, his suspicions were confirmed, this sighting leaving no doubt — three riders aboard spotted ponies, high up on the ridgeline to the west. The Indians weren't doing anything hostile, just watching them, but still, the sight sent a shiver of apprehension through him. Something about them, about the intense way they were watching, made him uneasy.

"We might have us some trouble brewin', Karl," Jess pointed out to the driver as he dug under the seat for the rifle stored there, one of the new Winchester 73 models. Jess checked that it was loaded, then gripped it tightly, cradling it across his lap as they rocketed down the road.

"Maybe dey is only curious about us," Karl's optimistic words didn't match the frown creasing his broad face.

"Maybe," Jess answered, not believing it. He kept watch, scanning the country on both sides. The braves were following, continuing to flank them and that had Jess worried now because the initial three had somehow grown to something closer to a dozen. Still, they'd done nothing more threatening than shadow the coach's path, and there was nothing wrong with that.

If that was all they continued to do.

The stage crossed Heyday Creek without incident, the horses splashing through the shallow stream, and then the road climbed to the crest of Redrock Hill.

That was where they found Ray Jeffries.

He was standing in the middle of the road, his saddle sitting in the dust at his feet as he flagged them down. He looked relieved to see them- a lean, middle-aged cowboy with a lined and windswept face. He was dressed in ordinary range garb of jeans, chaps, and a light blue work shirt, standing about Jess' own height, with dark hair and pale eyes. "Sure glad you folks came through. My horse come up lame last night," he pointed over into the trees where a long-legged roan, looking hard rode, stood three-legged in a patch of shade. "Thought I was gonna have to walk all the way to Buffalo."

"We got room, mister, but you may be steppin' from the fryin' pan into the fire," Jess warned him honestly.

The cowboy raised a questioning eyebrow.

"We've had Indians shadin' us for the past hour or so," Jess explained. "They ain't tried anything, leastways not yet."

"Don't reckon I've got much choice," the cowboy answered, tossing his saddle and bedroll up to Jess, who stowed them atop the coach.

Done, Jess nodded at the man's Colt, pleased at the prospect of another gun if it came to a fight. "Can you use that iron, mister?"

"I kin mostly hit what I'm aimin' at."

Jess nodded soberly. "Then you might want to keep it handy, mister… ?"

"I'm Ray Jeffries."

Jess leaned down and offered the man his hand and they shook. "I'm Jess Harper. Karl's our driver. Folks inside can make their own introductions. Reckon you ought to climb aboard, though, so we can get movin'. I'm thinkin' we don't want to be out on this road after dark."

"Can't argue with you there," the cowboy agreed, opening the coach door and climbing inside. Jess heard Ray introduce himself to the other passengers as Karl slapped the lines and set the stage back into motion.

For the next half hour, Jess and Karl rode in silence, the driver intent on his galloping horses and the road while Jess studied the ridges and hills above their route. They were crossing a wide valley and the first of the foothills of the Medicine Bow Mountains loomed just ahead. Jess tried to recall what he knew of their route- he'd been up in this country before but not often. The stage road, as he remembered, made several sweeping turns up ahead, avoiding the steepest climbs but, he worried, affording their pursuers the option of cutting cross country on their ponies, maybe even getting ahead of the coach on its longer route, if they were so inclined.

At the base of the hill, the driver hauled back on his lines and slowed the team to a hard trot, and as the slope increased the horses put their shoulders into the work of the long climb.

Jess' eyes roved from rock to sagebrush to trees and back again, scanning every possible hiding place, even the ones that seemed too small to conceal anything bigger than a jackrabbit.

His searching eyes found nothing.

They were halfway up the slope, the winded horses slowing to a jog, when Karl suddenly cried out and slumped over. Jess swung his gaze around to the far side of the road and spotted an Indian, his broad, impassive face smeared with zigzag stripes of war paint. He was rising up out of the grass, his bow raised and another arrow nocked and ready to fly. Jess snapped the Winchester to his shoulder and fired, his first shot knocking the brave back down into the grass. Spinning left, he flung lead at another warrior crouched behind a tree and, as fast as he could work the action, three more slugs snarled around a cluster of rocks where he'd seen movement.

Shots from inside the coach echoed his own, peppering the landscape around their attackers.

"Jess! I'm hit!"

He spun around at the agonized whisper. Even at first glance it was obvious that Karl was hurt bad. The driver was sagging, his face gray, and the feathered shaft of an arrow protruded from the left side of his ribcage.

With a visible effort, Karl sucked in a breath and whispered, "Da horses, Jess, you must… take da lines…."

He didn't have enough hands for both gun and reins, but Jess knew his first job was to keep the stage upright and under control. Reluctantly dropping the rifle at his feet, he grabbed the reins as they were slipping from the slumping driver's hands. As he adjusted the lines through his fingers, another arrow thumped into the side of the coach and a third zipped just over Jess' shoulder. "Hee-yah," he shouted at the horses, slapping them with the leathers. They lurched into a ragged trot, accelerating into a gallop as he urged them to greater speed, laboring as they climbed the steep hill, leaving the ambush behind.

They crested the hill and now on the downslope, Jess let the team run, needing all his strength and skill to hold them on the road as they raced down the rough track, the coach rattling and shaking until Jess thought it would break apart. He drove the horses hard up and over the next hill before finally pulling them up. They stopped readily, blowing and snorting, lathered sides heaving, welcoming the rest.

Jess set the brake, hastily wrapped the reins around the handle and turned to Karl as he heard the coach doors open and the babbling voices of the passengers. The driver was barely conscious, his breathing shallow, and way too much blood soaking his shirt. Jess had nothing for a bandage to staunch the flow and no time to waste asking the others for anything. Hastily he shucked out of his shirt, folding it over once before wrapping it around the man's chest as a makeshift binding. He knew they had no time to provide Karl with any real medical care — already Jess thought he could see movement back in the trees. Their gunfire had slowed their pursuers but not driven them off.

"Get him in the coach," Jess ordered as Jeffries and the rancher stepped to the side of the stage. Jess eased the unresponsive Karl down and the two men manhandled him inside.

"What are we gonna do?" the worried rancher asked, looking up at Jess.

"We'll make for Lodgepole Creek Station. It's on the other side of the pass," Jess answered gruffly. "I need you all to keep a good watch behind us. And if you're a prayin' man, right now might be a real good time to get busy." He handed the Winchester down to Arnold. "Whichever one of ya' is the best shot ought to take that."

"What about you?" the rancher asked, accepting the rifle. "Don't you want to keep this?"

"I'll have my hands full," Jess answered. As soon as he heard the doors close, he tugged his hat down tight, settling himself on the box with his boots braced on the foot rest. He adjusted the lines in his hands again and released the brake, shouting out to the team and sending the coach rattling into motion.

The brief stop had allowed the horses the opportunity to catch their wind, but Jess knew they were tired, and there were miles still to go with a raiding party hot on their heels. He settled the team into an easy trot as they started up the next hill.

Maybe the Indians wouldn't keep following, he told himself hopefully. He was sure he'd killed the one; maybe he or one of the passengers had gotten lucky and accounted for a few more, but Jess knew that wasn't likely. And Sioux on the warpath weren't likely to call it quits just because one or two of them were dead or injured. More likely, their losses would only make them madder. They'd regroup and come up with a new plan of attack, and the winding road ahead gave them plenty of opportunity.

The coach cleared the top of the hill. Jess could see far ahead now, down into the valley below, the line of green that marked the east branch of Lodgepole Creek and the road snaking its way up the switchbacks to the pass just ahead. He wiped sweat from his face with the sleeve of his undershirt and loosened the reins a bit, letting the horses have their heads and build up speed on the downhill run.

Just this one last barrier, these last couple of miles up and over the pass and they'd be within reach of the safety of the station. Jess spared a thought for Karl, wondering if the driver was still alive, but he knew there was nothing he could do for the man except get to their destination and hope that someone there could help him.

Jess' hands were steady on the lines as the horses reached the valley floor and hit the last level stretch of road, once more lengthening their strides into a full gallop. Jess adjusted the reins in his hand, knowing he'd need all his skill and experience to navigate the challenging road ahead. They crossed the creek without slowing and just beyond it, he felt the coach's angle change slightly and the team seemed to hesitate. The horses were no longer fresh, but they were still game, and he urged them on, building momentum for the climb.

It was a climb they would not complete.

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Chapter Four to be posted soon

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	4. Chapter 4

Eyes Like Sky: Chapter Four

As they rounded the first switchback, Jess glimpsed their attackers out of the corner of his eye, a flash of movement and color as the galloping ponies and their Sioux riders emerged from the trees in wild pursuit. A split second later the first shots erupted from the coach below him. He saw a warrior catapulted from the saddle but that was all the time he had to look back - the horses and the road ahead needed his full attention now. He slapped the reins over the backs of the team, urging them on with his voice, leaning forward into the wind as the horses responded, once more stretching out into a flat out run on the short straightaway. More gunshots rattled from the stage's windows below him, a six-gun and then the rifle barked again, but this time he didn't look to see if they had any effect.

He was focused on what lay ahead.

Gauging the distance to the next curve, knowing their lives depended on his timing, Jess hauled on the left lines, applying a bit of brake to help pull the racing horses around the sharp bend in the road. The coach's rear wheels skidded ominously close to the edge but held the trail, and then they were on the next straightaway.

A fleet pony, ridden by a screaming brave, was nearly up beside the coach before another flurry of gunfire erupted from inside. The Indian was flung off his mount, the pony momentarily running alongside before he veered away and disappeared.

The next corner was even sharper and Jess' arms strained with the effort of hauling the racing team to the right. He stood, one foot working the brake, the other braced against the foot rest, throwing his whole body into the effort of pulling the galloping horses around the bend.

He risked a quick glance behind and wished he hadn't — their pursuers were close, so close he could see the warriors' fierce, painted faces peering over the manes of their straining ponies. Turning his attention ahead once more, Jess braced himself again and began to tug on the lines for the approaching left-hand turn.

Suddenly, three things happened so close together they seemed to occur all at once.

One of the leaders stumbled, throwing the whole team out of rhythm just as they approached the corner. Jess felt the coach shudder and then the rear wheels slewed sideways as the horses faltered before regaining their strides. Jess fought to pull them back and regain control, but the coach continued to slide perilously close to the edge of the road.

The leaders bolted, the bits in their teeth, galloping in full panic like stampeded cattle, the more placid wheelers racing as hard as the leaders. Jess felt like his arms were being pulled from their sockets as he fought vainly for control.

Dust roiled and billowed around them. He was enveloped in the sound of the rushing wind, the thundering hooves of the team, the constant rattle of gunfire, and the screaming warriors pulling abreast of the coach.

And then, in a single instant, just as he thought he was regaining his hold on the team, it was all over.

An arrow buried itself in the wood of the seat beside him; a second one knifed deep into his left shoulder, the tip embedding itself in his collarbone. Instantly, his whole arm went numb, the lines slipping from his hand, and a race for escape turned into a total runaway. The horses, having suddenly lost all contact with their driver, lunged forward, the stage skidding, and one wheel slipping off the road. Jess heard the terrific crack! of wood shattering, he wasn't sure if it was pole or wheel or axle or some other vital part. The stage, racing up the last stretch of the hill, mere inches from a sheer drop-off of hundreds of feet littered with boulders and scattered stands of small pines, tilted and lurched.

Jess was thrown off the seat, flying through the air to crash to the ground, tumbling amid the dust choked air. He didn't see the coach teeter on its right hand wheels for a few brief seconds before crashing over onto its side. The pole cracked and snapped, freeing the horses' whose speed increased as they raced on without their burden, running free. The stage skidded, slid, then lost its fight with gravity and rolled completely over, flipping twice before smashing into a house sized boulder, breaking apart like cracking kindling as it shuddered to a halt, bodies and cargo spilling out.

The Indians, screaming in triumph, pulled up beside the wreckage. They fired arrow after arrow into the bodies before leaping from their mounts and scalping the dead men. Finally, having searched through the scattering of broken open satchels and trunks and the contents that spilled out onto the ground and having taken what they wanted, they set fire to the ruined remains and rode away.

Jess saw none of it. Battered and bloody, he lay unmoving and unconscious amid the sparse shelter of a cluster of fragrant small pines, unnoticed by the wildly celebrating war party.

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Jess woke up to cold darkness, coughing at the thick, acrid smell of smoke from somewhere nearby. His head throbbed, he was dizzy and sick to his stomach, too weak and disoriented to do anything more than just lie beneath the pines and dazedly wonder how he'd gotten there. His addled brain couldn't recall what had happened, there were only tattered, disjointed images washing through his mind, of fleeing, of running from pursuers, of dust and danger and of shots fired, of being chased by someone or something dangerous, but he couldn't remember who or what. He gave up trying to make sense of his memories and tried instead to figure out what was wrong with him. He hurt pretty much all over, with some of the worst of it centered in his left shoulder, the too-familiar slick feel of warm blood sliding wet and sticky down his chest. Working by feel in the pitch darkness, the probing fingers of his right hand encountered the broken-off shaft of an arrow protruding from his shoulder, and he drew in a sharp breath and hissed at the pain.

Instinct drove him to move, to get away from this place. He wasn't sure why, he wasn't sure of anything, he just knew he shouldn't be here, hurt and alone, on foot, in the dark of the night. Something was wrong, very wrong, even if he didn't know what it was; he was somehow certain that deadly danger lurked close by. Pausing for a moment to gather his strength, he used his good arm to push himself to a sitting position, making his head spin even more in a thoroughly sickening way. He gasped and leaned forward, fighting back the urge to retch. Inhaling another lungful of the harsh smoke, he coughed again and covered his nose and mouth with his ragged sleeve, trying to filter out the nasty odor that reeked with the stench of death.

He wasn't sure of much, but he was sure that this was neither a good nor a safe place to be.

Struggling awkwardly to his feet, left arm hanging useless, Jess took a step and his left ankle wobbled and buckled. He stayed upright only by latching onto the trunk of a pine, bracing himself against the spindly tree. His ankle throbbed steadily and his left foot was cold - his boot was missing, though he didn't realize it yet.

Wincing with the sharp pain in his ankle and the rough, cutting rock under his sock-clad foot, Jess surrendered to an instinctive need for movement, to flee in search of a safe haven. He had no destination in mind other than 'away' as he staggered downhill though the trees and brush, slipping, sliding, falling, moving steadily away from the road, away from the searchers who would arrive in a few hours to find his dead companions, and who would, mistakenly, count him among them.

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Moving revealed a thousand small hurts, like every part of his body had been pummeled in a fight against overwhelming numbers. The pain was worst in the back of his left shoulder, his aching head, and his throbbing ankle, but it lived, too, in his left foot and along his ribs, his right hip, his neck and his no-longer numb left arm — it seemed like there wasn't a square inch of him that didn't ache as he stumbled further down the slope. Yet he wouldn't let himself stop — he knew danger lurked here, the devil himself dogged his footsteps or so his vivid, fractured recollections insisted, torturing him with bright flashes of disorienting memory.

He walked, stumbled, fell and rose again and when he couldn't rise, he lay and rested until he found the strength to regain his feet and move on.

He had to keep moving.

Jess heard the water before he saw it, staggering gratefully into the stream, the cold water a harsh shock to his whole body. Suddenly realizing how terribly thirsty he was, he stood knee deep in the stream and scooped water into his mouth with his hand. Most of the year, the creek was a small and lazy one but now it was the size of a river, racing with the power of recent rains and the last of the summer's snowmelt runoff from the mountains above.

Bending over to drink more, his head blazed with sudden pain and Jess slid to his knees. Everything was spinning again, worse than before, and as he lost consciousness, he was unaware of the water carrying him with it.

He had no way to know how far the stream carried him, or where he'd ended up, but when he woke, lying in shallow water and shivering with cold, the sun was coming up. Forcing himself to his feet, he staggered on, leaving the stream and crossing rough, rock-strewn ground as he stumbled into the trees, following some sort of a faint path that led him higher up the hillside. His body ached in so many places, one hurt melded into another, but the vivid recollections of the danger behind him drove him forward, moving doggedly onward.

He knew he hadn't eaten for far too long; he wasn't hungry, but as the sun rose, thirst began to plague him, his mouth bone dry and his throat raw and aching. Sweat trickled down his back, but when the cool winds off the mountain reached him, he shivered at their chill.

Jess stumbled on, following a dim trail that took him away from the water and up into the hills, deeper into the sheltering trees.

He kept moving until he smelled the smoke.

It was different smoke this time, not the bitter, acrid scent of death he remembered, but something familiar that drew him on, like moth to a flame: warmth, comfort, safety.

He walked and fell, and then he staggered upright and walked until he fell again and had no strength to get back on his feet.

Here in the open meadow, the sun was warm, the grass beneath him smelled fresh, the air was pleasantly cool and he was tired, so very, very tired.

Tired.

He was just going to rest for a minute.

It was the last thing Jess remembered.

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The first time he'd battled his way toward consciousness, hurt had been his world, pulsing, throbbing pain that blocked out all sense of the world around him, of where he was or who he was or what had happened to him.

His second waking in the unfamiliar place was barely more informative than his first. His thoughts still drifted aimlessly, the way they did when he'd had that fever last winter that had kept him in bed for a week and scared poor Daisy half to death. He was still too weak to lift his head and his limbs felt leaden and sort of disconnected, except for the aches. The pain seemed duller now than what he remembered, but it was still there, lurking right below the surface. With a mighty effort he managed to lift his head and look over to see that his shoulder was covered by a lumpy, foul smelling bandage. Seemed like one foot was wrapped up, too, but the rest of him felt like it was swathed in something soft, warm and comforting.

He didn't know how he'd gotten here, or where here was, but he was warm and dry and being tended to, and that eased his mind.

Jess slept.

Day drifted into night.

A raging fever gripped him, coming and going like waves on the ocean. Alternately shaking with cold, dripping wet with sweat, tossing and turning and mumbling incoherently, he dreamed of home.

He was unaware of the passage of time, of the long days and longer nights that passed, and of the strange old woman who nursed him.

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When next Jess came around to wakefulness, the old woman was there with him. She was humming an oddly discordant sound that he couldn't really call a song, not the sort of thing Daisy sometimes did as she worked around the house, melodic even if he didn't know the tune, which he usually didn't. His experience with music was usually of the dance hall and saloon piano kind; Daisy's was certainly from something more genteel, he reckoned.

The old Indian woman was muttering now as Jess turned his head to look at her. As she came to the side of the bed she smiled, or at least he hoped it was supposed to be a smile, though her gap-toothed visage was more frightening than reassuring.

Suddenly aware of his raging thirst, "Water," he croaked through a throat that felt rough and raw. "Water."

She tilted her head and looked at him and didn't seem to understand. He raised his hand, heavy as it was, to mimic drinking, but she slapped it aside as if he were a small child. Slowly she untied the knot that held a cloth bandage wrapped around his upper chest from the left side of his neck and down around and under his left arm, continuing the odd humming sound as she worked. He caught a sudden whiff of something so pungent that it made him gag and for a moment he was sure his wound had gone gangrenous, and then he realized the smell was, thankfully, coming not from his own flesh but from the poultice the bandage held in place. She removed what seemed to be a decaying mass of leaves and weeds, and ignoring his attempts to talk to her, put a fresh poultice in place and re-tied the bandage. Then she moved down to his foot and began to do the same.

He managed to raise his head far enough to look down at his toes. They were black and blue and swollen and he grimaced at her touch as she cleaned his foot and replaced the poultice and bandage. Whatever he'd done to it, and he couldn't remember what that might have been, had clearly been bad.

He shifted on the bed, trying to see more, and intense pain spiked from his ankle clear up to his hip, weakness washing through him. He fell back onto the bed gasping as the old woman looked sternly at him, shaking her head and chattering something unintelligible.

She walked away, out of his limited line of sight, returning in a moment with a cup. Lifting his head with her left hand, she put the cup to his lips with her right.

Eager for the liquid, he took a deep swallow and coughed. It wasn't water but something bitter that left a foul taste on his tongue. He tried to turn his head away and refuse more, but he wasn't strong enough to pull out of the grasp of her clawlike hands. She poured more of the foul stuff into his mouth and it was swallow or choke on it.

He swallowed.

She muttered something as she released him, his head falling back on the bed. Already the room was spinning. He was losing his grasp on the here and now, his thoughts scattering beyond his reach. His last thought was a hope that whatever it was that she'd given him, wasn't about to kill him.

Chapter Five to be posted soon

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	5. Chapter 5

Eyes Like Sky: Chapter Five

It had been another long and difficult day. The _Laramie Gazette_ had printed a special edition with all of the details, or at least all of the details they could surmise, speculate and invent, about the Indian attack on the stage and the "grisly end of all those who rode on the doomed coach of death." Slim read the florid words with distaste, his blood boiling at the lurid prose. He had a mind to ride into town and read the riot act to the editor, but he curbed his anger, knowing that despite the momentary satisfaction it would give him, such behavior would only provide fodder for more outrageous headlines in next week's edition.

Slim crumpled up the paper with a weary sigh and tossed it into the fireplace, watching the greedy flames quickly turn it to ash, wishing he could as easily dispose of his other troubles.

He could hear muffled voices from Mike's room where Daisy was putting the youngster to bed. Deciding to join them, he walked across the room, his hand on the doorknob, ready to fully open the door that stood partially ajar. But before he could act, he heard Mike ask, "Aunt Daisy, has Jess gone to heaven?"

Slim paused. He could glimpse the housekeeper through the edge of the doorway, seeing just enough of her face to know she was taken aback by the question.

Daisy leaned forward, straightening the boy's covers to buy time while she formulated an answer. "Why do you ask, dear?"

"The preacher says that, if we want to go to heaven, then we're supposed to follow the ten commanders," the boy answered earnestly.

"Ten commandments," Daisy corrected automatically.

Mike looked down, his voice so soft Slim could barely hear it. "And I know sometimes Jess didn't."

"None of us are perfect, Mike," Daisy answered. "It's the trying to do right in our lives that matters."

"But one of those command-er-ments," Mike stumbled over the word, then tried again, "commandments, says we shouldn't kill anyone. And Jess did kill people. Slim has, too," he added in a worried voice.

"Oh, Mike," Slim saw Daisy take a seat on the edge of the boy's bed, leaning over to brush the hair back off his forehead. "Jess, and Slim, they have never shot anyone except to save the lives of others, to protect innocent people. That's not against the commandments."

"It's not?" Mike asked hopefully.

"No, no it's not," Daisy answered him firmly. "It's called self defense, and it's a good thing, not a bad thing."

The boy smiled, then the grin dimmed and disappeared again. "But that ain't…"

"Isn't," Daisy corrected.

"…that isn't the only commandment Jess broke. The preacher says it's a sin to lie." Mike looked down at the covers. "And sometimes he did."

"Lying to do wrong, to hurt someone, or to gain something you haven't earned, that's wrong, yes. But sometimes, when you don't tell the truth, it's not really a lie, it's a kindness."

"Huh?" the boy was confused.

"If I baked a pie, and it tasted bad, Slim would be kind and not want to hurt my feelings, so he'd say it was just fine," the housekeeper explained.

Mike was staring up at her, his forehead wrinkled in concentration as he tried hard to follow her logic. "But you never bake bad pies, Aunt Daisy, never."

It was her turn to smile and pat his arm tenderly. "Thank you, dear, but it could happen. I might, oh, forget the sugar, perhaps."

"You wouldn't do that."

"I might if a certain small boy distracted me with too many questions," she explained lightly. "Or maybe the apples were too green and sour, and because of that I didn't use enough sugar. But the reason isn't important, Mike. Now, Slim, he would be polite and not want to embarrass me, so he wouldn't tell the truth, but would say the pie was fine. And that's different than lying."

Mike was thoughtful for a moment, then seemed to accept her answer. "So Jess could go to heaven."

Daisy's expression softened, tears filling her eyes, and she blinked them away. "He was a good man, Mike, and he helped a lot of people, and that's what matters most." She pulled the boy's covers up once more. "Now, you quit thinking such serious thoughts and go to sleep, young man."

Mike snuggled into his blankets and she rose, turning to blow out the light. Slim quickly stepped away from the door, hurrying back to stand beside the fireplace so she wouldn't know he'd been listening.

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The old Indian woman had nursed her patient with the serenity borne of great age. Day after day, night after night, he writhed with the soaring fever from his wounds and then shuddered with the bone-deep chills that followed, muttering white man's words she didn't understand as she tended to him.

She wasn't sure why she cared for him; had not known why she had made the effort from the day she'd first found him, wandering deliriously, staggering down the valley, entering the solitary mountain refuge she had chosen.

She had watched while this strange invader to her world staggered up the trail that led into her sheltered hideaway and then fell, climbing to his feet only to fall again. When he couldn't walk any further, he crawled forward on hands and knees until his strength gave out and he collapsed again, lying on his belly unmoving.

At first, she had watched this bizarre event dispassionately, as she would observe the odd behavior of any injured wild creature. When he fell, she thought perhaps he had died, but after a few minutes, he moved again, crawling forward another twenty yards before collapsing once more.

Maybe it had been his determination, his will to go on that intrigued her.

Or maybe it was just curiosity.

Or loneliness.

She finally overcame her reluctance and fear of the stranger, moving slowly closer, hobbling along from the constant ache that permeated her aged bones until she stood over him. He lay face down in the grass and she paused to study him. Her first thought was that the white man was dead, he was so still, but then she knelt down to look closer, her knees creaking ominously, and when the wind died away she could hear his labored breathing.

She tapped him in the ribs with her cane, getting no response, and then hit him again, in the back, harder.

Still nothing.

She had never been so close to a white man before, never known anything but fear and loathing of them, but bravely, she reached down and, pushing on his shoulder, rolled him over.

He lived, but his skin was hot to the touch, burning with fever from a festering wound in his shoulder that already smelled of death.

Not likely to live long, this white man, she thought.

And then he grimaced, moaned softly, and opened his eyes.

"Aiyee!" She shrank back, stunned. Never had she seen such a thing in all her many years! She looked again, but his eyes were already sliding shut, covering what she had seen, but there was no mistaking it.

His eyes were the color of the sky on a summer afternoon.

He was no devil, but only a man, and in need of help, and the idea intrigued her. She tugged on his arm and told him to rise, and when he didn't seem to listen, scolded him like once she had chided her wayward children. Her words or her actions did somehow work — his remarkable eyes flickered open again and he muttered unintelligible sounds, but when she tugged on his good arm, he moved. With what little help she could give him, he'd somehow lurched to his feet and staggered forward. Together, his weight heavy against her stooped shoulders, they had shuffled to the cabin.

Once inside, she had put him on her bed, removing his torn clothing and wrapping him in her warmest furs before cutting out the arrowhead buried bone-deep in his shoulder, a Sioux arrow it was. Then she applied poultices to his festering wounds, brewed tea made with the wild plants her mother had long ago taught her would tame the highest fever, and sang songs calling on the Great Spirit to heal him as she helped him to drink the hot liquid. She was not sure if any of her people's medicine would work on a white man, especially one so sick as this one was, but eventually his wild ravings quieted and his fever fell until his flesh was cool to the touch.

He slept.

Day followed night into day. His fever rose and fell, again and again.

The old woman thought he would die. He writhed on the furs, thrashed and mumbled in his troubled sleep calling out what she was sure were words, but ones she didn't understand. He shivered as if he stood exposed to the coldest winter winds and sweated as if he were in the sacred sweat lodges of her people. But he was a strong man, this white man, and he did not give in to the sickness.

She called him Eyes Like Sky and nursed him as if he were her own long-gone son, the son of her heart whose bones had long, long ago crumbled to dust.

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Slim slipped out of bed and dressed quickly in the early morning chill, the room lit by only the faintest glimmer of light from the eastern sky. Sunrise was still nearly an hour away. Moving quietly so he wouldn't wake anyone else, he picked up his boots and headed toward the main room of the house.

"Are you trying to sneak out early again?" Daisy scolded, standing in the middle of the room, her arms folded across her chest as she fixed a stern glare on him.

He jumped in surprise at the unexpected voice, and stopped dead in his tracks, then looked guiltily over at her. "You shouldn't be up this early," he admonished.

"Neither should you," she countered matter of factly.

He flopped down into the chair in front of the fireplace and began tugging on his left boot. "I can't lie abed. I've got too much work to do."

She was glaring at him. "And whose fault is that?"

He didn't look at her, just sighed as he pulled on his right boot.

"You got in so late last night, you missed supper again, I thought you could use a good breakfast," she explained soothingly.

There was a long pause, as if she expected him to answer, and when he said nothing, she added. "Mike's really missed you. This has been so hard on him."

It's been hard on all of us, he thought but didn't say. He couldn't count the number of times he'd made a mental note to tell Jess something, or actually turned and started to say something to his friend, only to be reminded of their loss by the answering silence.

"Mike needs you, Slim, especially," Daisy's voice wavered but she went on, and Slim once again found himself admiring her strength, "especially since you're the only man around the place now. I know you're hurting, but don't turn away from him. Please."

Guilt washed over him, but he couldn't deal with that, not on top of everything else that he couldn't deal with. He glanced over at the empty rocking chair that sat in its customary place before the hearth, the chair that no one used now. They tiptoed around it and avoided it like a painful, raw wound.

"Slim," she started again.

"Not now, Daisy," he said, wearily.

"Then when? Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? You'll still be avoiding us," she told him flat out, her voice rising.

"Later."

"There is no time like the present."

"Later I said!"

Daisy, undeterred, stepped forward, lowering her voice. "Jess wouldn't want us to be like this," she declared.

"You don't know what he'd want!"

She flinched but persisted, understanding that his anger wasn't directed at her. "No, Slim, I didn't know him as long as you did, and I know you and he were like brothers. You shared things I'll never understand, but I knew things about him I'm sure you never did." The hurt was plain in her voice.

The tall man couldn't disagree with that. Daisy was so much more than just a cook and housekeeper. She mothered them all, had been friend and confidante, nurse and caretaker, and there'd been such a strong bond between her and Jess.

"I thought you were going to see if you could find someone to help with the ranch work," Daisy reminded him.

"I don't want any help!" he insisted, keeping his gaze focused on his boots.

She sounded weary, defeated at last as she sat gracelessly on one of the chairs beside the dinner table, her shoulders slumping. "Ignoring it won't change anything."

"I'm not ignoring anything," he denied.

"Yes, you are," she said primly.

His voice rose in anger, the only emotion he seemed able to allow himself to feel these days. "Daisy, don't you start on me," he warned.

"Well someone has to," she snapped, then stopped, feeling she had overstepped her bounds. But her family was breaking apart, and she had to try to save it any way she could. "Jess… " There was pain in her voice when she said the name, but she steadied it and went on, gently, "Jess is gone, and we can't change that. Hiring someone to help with the work doesn't mean we miss him any less. It wouldn't be disloyal."

He jumped to his feet and thumped his fist down on the mantle of the fireplace, rattling the pictures that stood there.

"Slim, you can't go on like this," she pleaded. "None of us can."

His shoulders slumped and his voice lowered and he felt world weary, as old as the hills, and ashamed of the way he had treated this gentle and caring woman who had loved Jess as much as he did. "I'm sorry. I'm just not ready yet, Daisy," he said, softly, shifting his gaze to look over at her. "Give me a few more days. And, and I promise, I'll get home earlier tonight and spend some time with Mike."

She nodded unhappily, unsatisfied with his vague promise, and returned reluctantly to fetch the food from the kitchen.

Chapter Six to be posted soon

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	6. Chapter 6

Eyes Like Sky: Chapter Six

It seemed like Jess had taken all the joy of the world with him. That had been Jess' gift, that ability to enjoy life in ways Slim, the quiet, serious one, had never experienced before the gun-toting drifter had ridden into the Sherman Ranch. He'd let his responsibilities weigh him down until Jess had shown him that there was more to life than work.

Slim was lost in memories as he rode out alone, as he did now every day, finding an excuse to leave the ranch and stay away all day, neglecting chores that he knew needed doing around the yard, but unable to face them alone. The ghost of Jess Harper seemed to inhabit the place, mocking his efforts to return some sort of equilibrium to life on the ranch.

He remembered once long ago telling Jess that he was as much a part of the place as Slim himself, and Jess' passing had proved him right. The Sherman Ranch wasn't the same without the brash Texan; it would never be the same.

But life went on.

Slim sighed. Daisy was right. He had to stop wallowing in the past, get his head straightened around, and take care of business. There were too many chores that couldn't be done by a single pair of hands; too many tasks for one man and one small boy and one no longer young woman to get finished in a day. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right, but the ranch couldn't wait for him to finish grieving. Jess would kick his tail clear to Cheyenne for forgetting that.

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It took many days, but finally the old woman decided that Eyes Like Sky would live. The poultice had drawn the poison from the deep arrow wound, and the tea mixed with herbs had lowered his fever so that his skin no longer burned as fiercely as the sun. Now, her singsong chants soothed him into a deep, healing sleep. The ugly shoulder wound quit draining; the deep cuts and abrasions on his bootless foot no longer oozed, even the swelling had gone down in his ankle.

Her name was Abanacheewahnika, She Who Dances Under the Sky, and she had reached a very, very old age among her people. She had lived so long she could remember a time when no one in her village had ever met a white man. Tales of such strange, pale-skinned men had been only crazy stories told to frighten children. Her people had been numerous as the blades of grass then, before the white man's guns and sicknesses had wiped out so many of them. Now, none of those she had grown up with still lived, neither did her sons nor her daughter. All had passed before her into the spirit land, and she had come to the valley to wait her turn to join them.

She had known it would not be long.

The effort of caring for the white man day after day exhausted her, depleting her small reserves of strength, not just from the sleepless nights but from giving him what little food she had and leaving too little for herself; from the many trips out to check the rabbit snares in the meadow and the fish trap in the creek. Even the extra water carried from the stream was more work than she had done for many, many moons.

She was too old for so much hard labor, but she could not let him die.

She chided herself for being a sentimental fool, helping a white man because his peculiar eyes reminded her of the color of the sky during that golden summer when she had been just a girl with raven hair and Yellow Fox had courted and won her.

The old woman settled herself before the hearth once more, tossing a handful of sage leaves into the flames, and in her hoarse voice, so long unused, chanted, remembering those better days of long ago.

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Consciousness returned slowly.

Jess felt wrung out and exhausted, but the fever seemed gone at last.

He remembered being sick, the alternating bouts of chills followed by fever, though only vaguely, like a scene viewed through thick fog; almost as if it had happened to someone else. And yet, he knew it had been him.

It was night. The cabin was lit only by the dim orange glow from a banked fire on the hearth, and the old woman slept on a pile of furs on the floor beside it. He felt not entirely clear-headed, but alert enough to wonder about where he was and who she was and how he had gotten here, and how he'd survived.

She woke him in the morning with her strange sing-song talk, hovering above him, revealing a mostly toothless smile in a seamed face that was as old as the hills. She pressed another cup of the vile tasting liquid to his lips but he was so thirsty he drank it down anyways, despite the disgusting taste.

"You know, Grandma, that stuff's awful. You could take some cookin' lessons from Daisy."

She peered at him with bright eyes, seemingly amused by his voice, answering him with more words he didn't understand.

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Jess knew he was getting better when he realized that he would have killed for a cup of coffee or for something other than the broth she fed him. He recognized the taste of rabbit in it, and wild onion, but whatever else was in it he pretty much didn't want to know. It smelled bad and tasted worse but she didn't give him a choice, so he swallowed it down and could only hope it didn't kill him.

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Every night's sleep, every nap, left him feeling a little bit stronger. And though he tried, he didn't remember how he'd gotten here, wherever here was. He did try to get up but managed nothing more than raising his head and propping himself up with his one good arm, well, relatively good arm. It shook like aspen leaves in the wind. Weaker than he thought, he worried. Still, the new vantage point allowed him to look out the door which stood slightly ajar. Through it Jess could see a thin sliver of the outside world, but nothing that gave him any real clues as to his whereabouts. There was only trees, grass, rocks, and in the distance, high, snow-capped mountain peaks.

Just then, the old woman returned, hobbling in the door with a tiny collection of sticks tucked under her arm. Seeing him, she scowled and scolded.

He didn't need to understand her words to understand her displeasure. "Okay, okay, Grandma, I'll stay put," he conceded, slumping back down into the warmth of the furs. "For now."

Another day passed. Jess lay dozing on the bed, snuggled in the warmth of the covers.

The old woman brought him a cup of broth and a worn old spoon made of horn. When she tried to feed him, he managed to snatch the spoon from her claw like hands. She smiled, at least he thought that was a smile, and handed him the bowl, which looked as ancient as the spoon. The carved wood was dark with age and worn smooth by years and years of use.

This time, to his relief it was more than just broth, but included meat he decided was more rabbit and bits of other things he reckoned were vegetables. He dug into it, the old woman watching him keenly all the while. Having finished all there was, he was surprised to find himself so ravenously hungry that he was tempted to lick the bowl.

Jess Harper was on the mend.

Chapter Seven to be posted soon

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	7. Chapter 7

Eyes Like Sky: Chapter Seven

"Jess," he pointed to himself and repeated, "Jess," then pointed at the old woman, eyebrow raised inquiringly.

She cackled, and said something long and low and growly that was loaded with way too many sounds for him to remember.

Jess shook his head in frustration. "Think I'll just keep callin' ya Grandma, if you don't mind," he decided.

She patted his shoulder, as if approving, and pointed to him and uttered guttural sounds he didn't understand. He was sure it was her name for him, but he couldn't understand it, or pronounce it, either, though he tried.

She liked the sound of his voice, deep and rumbling, and though he could not speak her language, and she did not understand his, she liked to listen to him, enjoying the rhythm of his words. She had missed the sound of a man's voice in her home.

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On the surface, life at the Sherman Ranch had slowly returned to normal. The stages passed through on their regular schedule; chores were done; the meals cooked and the house cleaned; evenings were once again spent together before the fireplace. Slim spent more time with Mike now that he had hired a new hand, the son of one of the homesteaders from down the valley. He was a very nice young man, hardworking and earnest and he tried hard at every task Slim assigned to him, but no matter how good his work, he was never going to be Jess Harper.

Daisy tried her best to keep her family together. She knew how much they needed each other, and how deeply they were still grieving.

Herself included.

She thought of Jess often; so many everyday things reminded her of him. In the midst of some ordinary task, doing something as simple as noticing the blue of the sky and how it reminded her of his eyes would fan the smoldering ash of her grief to open flame. The clatter of hoof beats in the yard would leave her unconsciously expecting him to come bustling in; the door would open and she would listen for the familiar sound of his lively footsteps; Slim would say something and she'd pause to wait for Jess' deep-voiced answer.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to bake an apple pie for weeks, and when she finally did, she found she couldn't eat any of it. Even Slim had only picked at it.

No matter how hard she tried, how often she washed and cleaned and swept and dusted, the grief that filled the house could not be evicted.

One afternoon, rearranging the books on a shelf in her room, tucked inside one she found a letter Jess had written when he'd gone off on a horse buying trip a year back. It was only a few sparse lines in his hard to read hand, but it reduced her to tears.

She planted flowers on Jess' grave, though it was far too late in the summer for them to ever bloom. Still, she had to try because, strange as it might seem for a man so rough and tumble on the outside, Jess loved flowers. It had been a secret between them, one of the things she knew about him and doubted Slim did. He'd told her once that the smell of roses was full of good memories, reminding him of his mother and his long lost home and family down in Texas.

Daisy Cooper had been through shattering grief before, the loss of both her son and her husband, and she knew she would survive the loss of this son of her heart, too. But she doubted the days would ever be so bright again, no matter how brilliant the sunshine or how blue the sky.

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Day followed on day, and Eyes Like Sky grew slowly stronger.

From among her small bundle of possessions, Abanacheewahnika pulled out the clothes she had made years ago for her oldest grandson, trousers and shirt of the finest, softest deer hide that she had tanned herself. They were finely decorated with beads and quills, hours of work from her own hands before age had twisted them into near useless claws. Such clothes were fit for a great warrior as her son had been, and her grandson would have been, if he had not been stricken down by the white man's sickness those many, many moons ago. He had never worn the buckskins, but she had been unable to give or throw them away, because they reminded her of what a brave and strong young man he had been, like this young man.

The moccasins she lined with rabbit fur from the game she had snared here in the valley. He needed that softness, especially for the many deep cuts on his left foot, the one that had been bare and bloodied when he had stumbled into her valley.

Once the clothes were ready for him, one early morning as he was deep in the sleep of healing she left them beside his bed before going out to check the snares and traps. On her return to the cabin, she was pleased to see that he was wearing them, a strange small smile on his face when he turned to her.

Things changed then. His strength was slowly returning and each day he hobbled out to sit in the sunshine, soaking up its healing warmth and strength. She laughed at his gait, nearly as awkward as her own, though unlike hers his day by day became smoother and swifter.

He helped her carry water from the creek and check her traps, and she understood that he did it, not just to help her, but to build his strength.

Abanacheewahnika could not miss how his gaze now looked longingly up at the mountain, lingering longer every day, his mind drifting far away from the little valley. He missed his people - she did not need to understand his words to know that someone or something was calling to his heart.

Soon, he would go away, go back to the land of the white man.

She would miss him.

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Jess struggled every day with one burning question that tumbled endlessly through his mind like water over rocks in a stream. Why hadn't anyone come looking for him?

In the long quiet evenings, as his strength gradually returned, that thought troubled Jess more and more.

Had Slim and Daisy and Mike forgotten him so easily?

He didn't believe that was true; not after all this time, not with the brotherhood that existed between him and Slim. But he couldn't fathom a reason why no one came for him. Sure, this place was remote, but it couldn't be that far from the stage road. After all, wounded and half dead, he'd somehow managed to walk here.

The terrible thought that there might be something wrong at home haunted him, goading Jess to push himself harder as he noted the falling leaves and shortening days with anxious eyes.

He couldn't afford to wait too long.

Winter wasn't far away, especially here in the high country where it started early. In the early mornings he could already feel a bite to the air, and once he'd even seen it snowing high up on the mountain.

It was a delicate balance, to wait long enough to build his strength to walk he didn't know how far, but certainly miles, yet not to wait too long and be trapped in this high, remote valley by the snows of winter.

He helped the old woman as much as he could, fixing her fish traps, carrying water, bringing wood for the fire, picking berries. Every day he pushed himself to his limits, testing his strength and rebuilding his stamina. He was frustrated by how slowly he was healing – just walking a few hundred yards to gather wood still exhausted him.

Time was getting short, he could feel it.

Jess was growing desperate to go.

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The old woman knew the day the white man was ready to leave. She had seen the homesickness in his eyes, those eyes whose color was so like a piece of the sky that they still startled her, and now she knew he was ready to go.

She gave him what she could to aid him on his journey: furs, a small store of food, and a gourd to carry water.

She would miss Eyes Like Sky.

She walked with him to the edge of the meadow, as far as her trembling old legs could carry her, and then she watched him go with sad eyes. She felt the chill in her bones from more than the wind, and knew that her life's last work was done.

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Mose pulled the team to a halt in the Sherman Ranch yard, wrapped the lines around the brake and jumped down off the box of the morning stage. "Howdy, Slim," he greeted the ranch owner cheerfully.

"Mornin' Mose," Slim acknowledged the stage driver as he quickly set to work unhooking the off-side leader. He undid the traces and when he turned to move over to the right side, nearly ran over the old driver in the process as Mose was following right on his heels. "You followin' me so close for a reason?" he asked.

"Not really," the old driver answered as he took a step back, an odd look crossing his face. "It's just that I heered a funny story, thought you might like to know 'bout it. One of the drivers from up Casper way tol' me yestidday. Said a few days back his shotgun met a man in a little town up north a there, claimin' to be Jess Harper."

Slim spun around, glaring at the old reinsman, then turned back to his work of unhooking the team, his shoulders taut. "That ain't funny, Mose."

"I know, it's just…."

Slim straightened, standing to his full height, his voice bitter. "Just what, Mose? Jess is buried up on that hill," the tall man waved up at the small cluster of graves nestled on the hillside above the ranch. "We all know it. You know it. You were there at the service."

"I know but it just don't seem like …."

Slim's anger erupted, his eyes flashing as he stepped in close to the old man and waved a finger in warning. "Don't you be spreadin' foolish tales, Mose, don't. Especially not to Daisy, or to Mike. They've taken this hard enough as it is."

Mose nodded, suddenly somber. "I know losin' Jess 'bout broke Daisy's heart."

"So don't you be a fool believin' some wild story like that. And upsettin' her with it," the tall rancher warned sternly.

Mose looked at the ground, toed the dust, then confessed. "It ain't the first time I heered that tale, Slim. And the feller that tol' me, he ain't the kind to make things up."

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Two days later Mose delivered the telegram.

'Am in Red Gulch,' it read. 'Need money to get home. Jess'

Slim crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fire, seething with rage, furious that someone would dare use Jess' name. What sort of cruel con game was someone playing, preying on a family's grief to get a few dollars? Thank God Daisy hadn't seen it.

But that night the rancher laid awake in his bunk, staring up at the ceiling, sleep beyond him. By dawn, his eyes were gritty and a headache gnawed at the base of his skull, but he couldn't put away the nagging feeling. Try as he might, he couldn't get Mose's story and that telegram out of his head.

What if it was Jess?

There was the tiniest seed of doubt swirling in his brain. After all, the bodies, including the one buried up on the hill, had been so badly burned in the wreck. There could have been a mistake. Jess could have survived, been taken away by the Indians, and then escaped.

It was crazy, thinking that, nothing but wishful thinking he chided himself. There had been four people riding in that coach, and four bodies found, and one of them clad in that blue shirt Jess had been wearing. But knowing the facts couldn't stop what he was thinking. And if there was the smallest, slightest, tiniest, wildest, unlikeliest chance, he had to take it.

He had to know.

And if it was a hoax, as he knew it was likely to be, then he'd dang well put a stop to it.

No one was going to mis-use his partner's good name.

Mind made up, Slim rose at dawn and tucked into the morning's chores, figuring to get an early start. Even as he made his plans, he knew it was a fool's errand, so much so that he lied to Daisy and told her that he was going north to discuss a cattle contract. He hadn't liked the idea of leaving the new hand in charge of the place, but young Will had proved to be a decent worker, and Daisy would see to it that he got the chores done.

Summer was done, fall had set in, the signs were obvious as he rode north. The days had grown short, the temperatures had turned cool with nights that were downright cold, and snow dusted the mountaintops. Slim huddled deep into his coat as he rode.

A thousand memories rode with him, memories of travelling with Jess on this very same trail: mustanging, chasing Indians and outlaws, herding cattle. All the work they'd done together, fencing, roundups, breaking horses. And the fun times, too. In four years they had forged a bond closer than brothers.

Chapter Eight to be posted soon

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	8. Chapter 8

Eyes Like Sky: Chapter Eight

Red Gulch, Slim discovered, wasn't much of a town, with only a few businesses lined up along a single, dusty street. There was a ramshackle store and a falling down boarding house, an old blacksmith shop beside a livery stable that had seen better days, and a pair of dingy, rundown saloons.

Since there was no lawman's office where he could ask his questions, Slim tied Alamo to the hitch rail in front of the general store. He stepped inside to find the owner, a short, plump man with an apron tied around his ample middle, stocking shelves.

"I'm Slim Sherman, and I'm lookin' for someone. Been any strangers hangin' around here?" Slim asked. "He's shorter n' me, dark haired, blue-eyed, kind'a testy…."

The shopkeeper paused in his work, rubbing a hand across his chin. "Yeah, there was a fella like that here a bit ago. What with the buckskins he was wearin' and that dark hair, might'a mistook him for an Indian 'cept for them blue eyes. He hung around here for a few days, kept tellin' us a crazy story about how he was some down on his luck rancher needin' money to get home and he'd pay us back double if we helped him out." The storekeeper laughed. "I'll tell you, weren't nobody here fool enough to buy a crazy story like that. And I ain't seen him for a few days." The man paused. "Someone, Harvey Davis I think it was if I recollect right, he told me he saw that feller set out walkin' a couple of days back. Said he was on his way to Casper. Think he might'a caught a ride with one of the freight wagons."

"I just rode in from Casper, and I didn't meet anybody on the trail," Slim countered suspiciously.

"More'n one way to get to Casper from here, Mister."

Slim shook his head, walked back outside, mounted his horse, and rode back toward Casper.

He arrived in town late in the day. Casper was a good deal bigger than Red Gulch, with a busy main street and several cross streets as well. As he rode past the sheriff's office, Slim noted that it was closed up and dark, so he kept going down to the boarding house. He took a room there, too tired and disheartened to bother with supper. Despite his weariness, he slept fitfully.

After a poor night's sleep, he skipped breakfast and walked down to the law office and jail only to find a note tacked to the door, saying the sheriff was out of town until after noon. So he started working his way along the street, stopping to chat with the liveryman, a harnessmaker, and the swamper at the saloon. He was just about to step into the feed store when a half a block ahead of him a man walked across the street.

Slim stopped and stared. Despite the buckskin pants and shirt, the moccasins rather than boots fitted with spurs, there was no mistaking that determined, energetic walk. It was oh so very familiar.

"Jess?" Slim called out uncertainly.

The man spun around at the sound of the familiar voice, squinting into the morning sun.

Slim did a disbelieving double take at what he saw. The man truly might have passed for Indian except for the thick stubble covering the narrow, lean face, and the bright color of his eyes.

"Slim?"

The rancher knew that gruff voice, had known he would never hear it again. A cold shiver passed through him as, disbelieving, Slim stared into the familiar blue eyes.

The buckskin clad man took a step closer, peering intently at him, and then the frown morphed into a bright, triumphant smile. "Slim!"

The tall rancher couldn't say a thing, couldn't move, rooted to the spot by amazement and disbelief. Then his face broke into a mile-wide smile and in three long-legged strides he covered the ground between them. Unabashedly, he threw his arms around Jess in a bear hug, slapping him on the back so hard he staggered the smaller man, shaking him to make sure he was real and not some ghost. "Jess!" His grin was so wide his face began to hurt. "Jess."

The shorter man was laughing wildly. "What the heck took you so long, pard? I thought you was never gonna find me."

"Well, I'm not in the habit of goin' lookin' for a dead man," Slim answered, stepping back, his expression going suddenly sober.

"A dead man?" Jess' smile faltered. "You thought I was dead?"

Slim nodded.

"Why'd you think that?"

"Everyone figured you were killed with the others in the stage wreck. They found four bodies, Jess, four."

"Well, yeah, Karl and the passengers." Jess paused.

"But that only would'a been three without you," Slim reminded him.

Jess shook his head. "Four. That day we picked up a cowboy whose horse went lame, up north of Rock River, just before those Indians hit us." Jess' smile dimmed at the memory. "Unlucky fella."

Slim still had a hand clamped tight on Jess' shoulder, as if to be sure he didn't get away again. "But how'd you survive? Where'd you go? Where've you been?" he demanded.

"The driver got hurt when the Indians attacked us the first time, so I took the lines. When we crashed, I got throwed clear, I reckon; next thing I recall, it was night and I was alone and hurt. Took to walkin'. And then it gets all hazy. I was pretty sick, had an arrow in my shoulder, and was out of my head with fever. I kept movin' as long as I could. And then this old Indian woman tended me.…"

"An old Indian woman?" Slim interrupted.

"Yeah, in a valley up in the mountains. She nursed me until I was strong enough to walk out." Jess looked up at his friend. "You brought my horse and my gear?"

"No," Slim admitted, looking down. "I didn't come up here expectin' to find you alive. "

"So then why did you come?"

"That telegram - I couldn't let someone be usin' your name," the tall rancher admitted. He slapped Jess on the back again. "Let's get you some regular clothes…."

"And boots."

Slim laughed, his hand on Jess' shoulder, unable to stop grinning like a fool. "We're gonna get you clothes and boots and a hat and a horse and then we're gonna get you on home where you belong."

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Daisy was nearly finished hanging the wash on the line when she noticed a pair of horses top the crest of the hill high above the ranch yard. She paused in her work, raising a hand to shade her eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun. Two men were riding in, side by side. She recognized one of them as Slim by the familiar way he rode tall in the saddle. And the other- she gasped and her heart lurched and then she told herself not to be silly. It couldn't be.

But as the men rode closer, she couldn't deny the resemblance, the familiar, upright way the shorter man gracefully sat his horse.

She had watched him ride in too many times not to recognize him.

Her hand dropped to cover her mouth and her heart began to race like a runaway train.

It was not possible.

And yet, unless her eyes were deceiving her, there he was.

She wiped a hand across her eyes, but the apparition was still there. Daisy watched, speechless, as the men rode closer, her gaze fixed on the shorter man's face, praying that it was not her wishful thinking creating those familiar features; that her mind wasn't playing some terrible, horrible trick on her, allowing her eyes to see what she so longed to see and knew she would never see again.

It was not possible.

The riders were close now, and she put her hand on her forehead to feel for fever because she must be hallucinating, because that face, it was- it couldn't be, but it was.

It was not possible.

The men pulled their horses to a halt in front of her, the shorter man with the thick dark wavy hair and laughing blue eyes was smiling wide as he jumped down from his horse, standing just a single footstep away from her, and when he spoke, his voice was as deep and rich as she remembered. "Daisy, aw, Daisy, it's so good to see ya!"

"Oh. Oh, my, oh," she patted her chest above her heart, feeling it thundering wildly because that voice was unmistakable. She gulped and took a deep breath and her tone was full of wonder as she tentatively said his name. "Jess? Is it really you?"

"Yeah, it's me, Daisy." He doffed his hat as he stepped forward, picked her up and whirled her around like she was a slip of a girl, and then, suddenly alarmed by the whiteness of her face, his expression turned serious and he set her down carefully. "Daisy? Are you all right?"

She reached up and gently touched his face, her hand trembling. "I am now, Jess, if it's really you?" she asked again.

He grinned. "It's really me." Impulsively, he hugged her, in part to make sure she didn't fall over in a dead faint because she looked like she might.

She basked in his embrace, her hands patting his back and her face blissful, then she pulled back and looked from Jess over to Slim and back, confused. "But, but, how? And why?"

Jess kept a hand on her arm to steady her. "It wasn't me killed by those Indians, Daisy. I was drivin' the stage and got tossed off the box before that war party burnt the coach."

"But, but then, where have you been all these weeks? Why didn't you come home?"

"There was an old cabin up in the mountains, and an old Indian woman there who found me and nursed me."

"Nursed you?"

"Through a bad fever." Jess went on. "I got hit with an arrow during the attack and was out of my head for days, I'm not sure how long. And then after, I was so weak I could barely stumble my way outside. Took me a long time to build up my strength enough to walk out a' there." Jess rubbed a hand across his chin and looked over at Slim, a quiver in his voice, "I couldn't figure why no one came lookin' for me," and then his voice took on a lighter, joking tone to hide his emotion. "I know I'm trouble but I didn't think you'd just forget me that fast."

Slim reached over and patted Jess' shoulder reassuringly. "You know we didn't, pard."

He looked down and nodded. "My clothes were all tore up, even lost one a' my boots. The old woman gave me moccasins and buckskins, and some food to take with me, and I walked for three days before I got to that little town." Jess didn't tell them how near a thing it had been, his hard-won strength nearly exhausted when he'd finally stumbled onto the road that led to Red Gulch.

He paused, his tone changing, suffused now with anger. "Wouldn't no one believe me about who I was or what had happened. I finally traded my gunbelt for a couple of dollars, enough to buy somethin' to eat, and to send that telegram. And, then, when you still didn't come," his voice shook again and this time it was Daisy squeezing his hand in encouragement and he went on. "I started walkin' again and after a bit I got a ride on a freight wagon as far as Casper, hopin' maybe I could find myself some work there, make me enough money to get back here."

Daisy was still digesting the whole unbelievable story as he talked, and she kept her hand firmly latched onto Jess' arm, holding on tight just to confirm that he was real. "But- but Jess, everyone believed you were dead. They found four bodies with the smashed coach."

Jess' grin disappeared. "We started out with three of us passengers riding inside, but we picked up another fellah along the trail. From what Slim told me, I reckon that's him you got buried up there on the hill."

"But they found pieces of your shirt with the coach, your blue shirt, that was what convinced us," Daisy probed, still confused.

"Jess used his shirt as a bandage for Karl, the driver," Slim explained, telling the housekeeper what his pard had told him during the ride home. "That's where the blue cloth came from."

Daisy took a deep, cleansing breath, feeling a huge weight lift off from her. Jess was back, and though he looked in need of a good meal, it was him standing hale and whole before her, and the unexpected shock of it suddenly left her feeling faint.

Jess saw her sway and quickly caught her, carrying her up onto the porch and inside, setting her down on the leather couch beneath the window, while Slim got her a glass of water from the kitchen.

"I'm sorry for scarin' ya," Jess apologized, looking contrite as he knelt in front of the housekeeper, fanning her with his hat.

"Oh my, no, don't apologize, Jess," her color was coming back, a smile growing on her face as she regained her composure and added lightly, "That was the best fright I've had in my life. Ever." Her eyes danced and she reached forward to hug him again, and he hugged her back.

Just then there was the sound of hoofbeats from outside, followed by the scuff of boots on the porch and the front door opening. A familiar young voice called out, "Who's here, Aunt Daisy? Did Slim bring company home?"

Jess spun around and, smiling wide, shouted, "Tiger!"

Mike's surprised face transformed into a look of pure delight. "Jess? Jess? Jess!" and then he was racing across the room and throwing himself into the cowboy's arms. "Jess, where have you been? We thought you were dead. Aunt Daisy cried, and me, and even Slim, too. The whole town was sad."

Jess looked over at the tall man who quickly looked away and refused to meet his eyes. "Oh, I don't think the *whole* town was sad, Tiger."

Mike nodded. "Oh yeah. They were all here for the buryin'. Even the newspaper said it was the biggest, grandest, most mem-memoriable funeral ever held in Laramie."

"Really?" Jess asked, looking over at Slim with a grin.

The rancher, smiling again, nodded. "Yup. Pretty near everyone turned out." His eyes twinkled. "Except for you!"

 _-Laramie -– Laramie – Laramie – Laramie –Laramie—_

Supper at the Sherman Ranch that evening was a joyous celebration, everyone in high spirits, talking and laughing, the house once again filled with life.

After they ate their meal and consumed the last of the apple pie, and Mike had been tucked into bed, Jess excused himself and disappeared outside. Slim gave him a few minutes to himself and then, at Daisy's urging, went to look for him. He glanced around the yard and finally spotted the cowboy up on the hillside, at the little burial plot.

Seeing Jess standing there, beside what had been his grave, sent a cold shiver up Slim's spine, but he shrugged off the feeling and hiked up the hill to stand beside his friend. Jess, lost in thought, didn't acknowledge his arrival. Finally, the tall man broke the silence. "Daisy planted the flowers."

"Figured that." Jess pointed at the stone marker at the head of the grave. "His name was Jeffries, Ray Jeffries. We need to change that."

"I know. Haven't exactly had time for that yet, pard." Slim smiled, putting his hand on Jess' shoulder. "Gives you the willies, does it, seein' your name there?"

"Some," the dark-haired man admitted. "Jeffries ought to at least rest under his own name, Slim. He seemed like a decent enough sort. It was bad luck brought him here."

"Maybe he's got folks somewhere that's lookin' for him," Slim suggested thoughtfully.

Jess shook his head. "I wouldn't know where to start lookin' for his kin. I didn't learn anything about him that day except for his name." He thought about how easy it would have been for his body to end up like this during his years on the drift, buried somewhere with only his name, or no name at all, with no one who cared about him ever knowing his fate. Like it almost had been, up in that valley, if not for the old Indian woman who'd taken him in.

"We'll get Harold at the Gazette to put his name in the paper, ask around, maybe someone will know him." The editor owed him a few favors, Slim thought, angrily recalling the articles that had sensationalized the Indian attack on the stage. "Mort can check, too."

"Maybe." Jess paused and looked up at Slim. "Otherwise, we ought to let him rest here." He looked out around the quiet countryside. "It's a good spot, lookin' out over the land."

"Yes, it is."

"The kind of place where, when a man's lucky enough to find it, he could stay forever."

Slim smiled and squeezed Jess' shoulder, agreeing. "Can't argue with that, Jess."

The tall man turned and started back down the hill.

"Slim."

The quiet call stopped him, and he turned back.

"Thanks."

"For?"

"Just thanks." Jess waved a hand, out over the countryside, over the land that was his home, unable to put his feelings into words.

Slim nodded, understanding, and then together the two of them walked silently back to the house, side by side.

Chapter Nine: Epilogue to be posted soon

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	9. Chapter 9

Eyes Like Sky: Chapter 9: Epilogue

As soon as he'd had a few days to fill up on Daisy's good cooking, Jess tried to go back north to the cabin, but it was already too late. Snow had blocked the lower passes, an early high country blizzard making mountain travel impossible and forcing him to turn back before he got anywhere near the little hidden valley. Disappointed, Jess returned to Laramie, vowing to go back to the mountains as soon as the drifts melted. But it was a long and hard winter, one that lingered and lasted well beyond the usual.

Many months passed before spring finally arrived and Jess and Slim finally rode north together.

The trip took them longer than they'd expected.

Jess had trouble finding his way back. The high valley was remote and well hidden. The land looked different from horseback than it had from afoot and more than once he had turned one way and then had to retrace his path and try again. Twice the trail was so steep and rough they had to get off and walk, leading the horses over the worst patches. And despite the late date, at the high altitude winter was barely gone. There was still snow in every patch of shade while in the sunny meadows, the first shoots of green were just beginning to show through the remains of last summer's dead grass.

Finally, though, they emerged into the little valley Jess recognized, tucked high up in the mountains.

"Never knew this place was here," Slim said, looking around in surprise.

"I reckon most no one does, 'cept whatever old trapper built the cabin all those years ago," Jess answered. He pushed his horse into a lope across the meadow, then pulled to a halt in front of the valley's lone building.

It must have been a hard winter- the roof sagged even more than he remembered and the weathered door tilted crookedly on its hinges. With sudden dread, Jess realized there was no smoke lifting from the chimney. "Hey, Grandma!" he called out, ignoring Slim's inquiring look at the name. "Grandma! It's Jess. I'm back. Grandma!"

His shout echoed across the little valley, his words bouncing back off the rocks of the surrounding mountainside. There was no answer except for a lone crow cawing from its perch in the trees. "Grandma!" He stepped down from his mount, Slim copying his movements even as the tall rancher cast a wary eye around the clearing.

Jess dropped his horse's reins and, pushing past the half-open door, hurried inside.

Just inside he stopped dead in his tracks, staring around in disbelief.

The cabin was empty, deserted.

There was the clatter of boots as Slim came in behind him, ducking to step through the low doorway, then walking hunched over under the sagging ceiling. The tall man wandered around, wiping cobwebs out of his path and off the moth-eaten furs that covered the bed. There were a few grimy jars on a shelf and despite covering his nose and mouth with his hand, he coughed when he shook the dust off of them. "It doesn't look like there's been anyone here for a long time, Jess," Slim said gently.

"Maybe she made it down to the lowlands for the winter," Jess suggested uncertainly, still looking and sounding puzzled, "but I'd reckoned she hadn't left this place for years. She could hardly walk, she was so old and all bent over with the arthritis. I made her a new cane, carved it out of wood from a lightning shattered pine I found over there on that hillside," Jess waved a hand toward the base of the tallest of the peaks that ringed the small valley.

Slim wanted to believe his partner, but what he was seeing just didn't jibe with what Jess had told him. The rancher shook his head in growing disbelief. "I don't know, Jess." He wiped more dust off the table, frowning as he looked around. "Are you sure this is the right place? Looks like it's been empty a lot longer than just one winter."

The dark-haired cowboy spun around and glared at his friend. "A' course I'm sure this is it — the cabin, the valley, that mountain. I lived here. I saw it every day."

"Look, Jess, you were mighty sick, feverish, maybe your memory's not so g…."

"I was here, Slim. *She* was here."

The tall man raised a placating hand. "Hey, I believe you, Jess. It's just, well, there's sure no sign of an old Indian woman, or anyone else livin' here, not for a real long time."

"I know, pard." Jess rubbed a gloved hand along his jaw. He wandered uncertainly around inside the cabin, then went back out into the thin spring sunshine, but found no sign there, either. Finally, he stopped and gazed up at the mountain. "I guess I'll leave the supplies here," he added hesitantly. "Maybe she'll come back."

Slim nodded in agreement.

Together, they unloaded the pack horse, stacking the supplies in the middle of the table, and next to them, the moccasins and the clothes of soft buckskin the old woman had given to Jess.

He was still hoping against hope that she would return to find them. "If she don't come back, maybe someone else in need'll make use of 'em," Jess suggested as they mounted up and rode away down the valley, side by side.

At the far end of the meadow, where the trail disappeared into the trees, Jess reined his horse to a halt and twisted around in the saddle to take a final look back. For a moment, he was sure he saw a small, stooped figure standing beside the cabin, but when he blinked it was gone. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the valley was empty, the only motion that of the grass waving in the wind, under sky the color of his eyes.

_The End_

Thank you for reading.

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